


Homeless

by Mime_Paradox



Series: Children of Rambaldi AU [3]
Category: Alias (TV)
Genre: Bills Bills Bills, Does Not Pass the Bechdel Test, Gen, More rewrites of canon episodes, Sydney isn't the only POV character in this one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-06
Updated: 2019-12-07
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:35:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21696307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mime_Paradox/pseuds/Mime_Paradox
Summary: With her father back in prison and her C.I.A. clearance restored, Sydney attempts to get her life back. Sark is wanted by the Covenant.
Series: Children of Rambaldi AU [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1303259
Comments: 5
Kudos: 5





	1. Chapter 1

**Prague, 43 hours earlier**

Whatever she had been up to in the last two years had not dulled Sydney Bristow’s physical prowess: it was no trouble at all keeping up with the escaping Gordei Volkov.

As she ran, Sydney heard the sound of police sirens nearby—the gunshots that she had fired earlier had not gone unheeded. That complicated things: it meant she could no longer use her gun, lest she drew unwanted attention. Oh, well: punching people was always the better stress reliever. 

She hoped, despite everything, that Anna had managed to make a clean exit.

Whether accidentally or intentionally, Volkov had run into a one-way alley, bringing the chase to an unexpected end: unless he possessed heretofore unapparent wall-climbing skills, his single avenue of escape was now through her. The Covenant operative turned around to face Sydney; his right hand bore a set of brass knuckles. “So the rumors were true, eh, Julia? I didn’t want to believe them—you, going rogue? Surprised the hell out of me to see you at the base.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” People should not know more about her than she herself did. 

“Your new comrades will not protect you. You know what The Covenant does to traitors. You may live through this night, but you’ll be dead before the year’s done.”

“Well, they can try; I have nothing to lose.” 

\----

The comment had felt true enough in the moment, but it hadn’t been entirely accurate. 

Sydney had lived through that night, and now she did have something to lose: her father, now freed, was the only thing keeping her from breaking down and letting despair take over. Even now, as she watched the footage of herself killing a man in cold blood, his complete lack of horror allowed her to maintain a measure of calm.

“A forensic analysis of the recording suggests that Lazarey spoke one word before being killed, ‘Julia,’” said Jack. “I have not been able to determine whether that’s your alias, someone else, or some sort of code phrase—by the time I began my investigation, the visitor logs and surveillance footage for that day had both disappeared.”

“Julia. That’s what Volkov—the man who stole the drone designs I retrieved—called me.”

Jack remained expressionless as he accepted this new information. “That’s good. It suggests a consistent alias. It will be easier to track down.”

“It also suggests that I was working for the Covenant.” Not at all an appealing thought—not only because it meant that she’d been working for a criminal organization—again—for reasons she could not remember, but also because it contradicted her continuing suspicion that Sloane was behind her current woes. While it seemed nobody understood what he and Irina were actually doing, everyone seemed fairly clear that it was not as part of that organization. 

“Unfortunately so. In any case, any information helps. But Sydney, the reason I needed to show you this is because you need to be careful. Until you regain your memories or obtain a clearer understanding of your missing years, you cannot let anyone else know about this.”

This required no explanation. “You said that the surveillance footage was deleted?” Sydney asked.

“Yes. A double-edged sword, to be sure. It hinders our investigation just as much as it does the one here.” 

“Here? Where did this occur?”

“The Russian embassy in DC. While I’m certain the Russians are looking into the matter clandestinely, officially they’ve agreed to leave the investigation to U.S. intelligence.”

Which meant a group comprising both domestic and foreign intelligence agents. “Kendall?” 

“Yes, unfortunately. That’s also why it’s imperative for you to get tested, and determine what exactly has been done to your brain. If your memory doesn’t return, your amnesia may be the only thing protecting you, so it is imperative that you be able to prove that it is real.”

\----

Much of the next week was spent on that very task. One of the perks of C.I.A. employment was that it allowed agents to cut through most medical red tape, meaning that Sydney could subject herself to the required tests without having to wait an eternity for them. The tests themselves were rather painless—even the mandated session with Dr. Barnett—but Sydney was glad when they were finished. Now all that was left was waiting for the results.

Much less successful, on the other hand, were Sydney’s attempts at regaining control of her finances. After her death, banks which had closed her accounts were now quite reluctant to accept the fact that she and the Sydney Bristow who had died two years earlier were the same person. No matter how sympathetic individual people may have been to her plight, it wasn’t enough to overcome the fact that her story suggested that she had either committed fraud, or was attempting to commit fraud now. And so a week passed, and Sydney was still without a home, without money, without credit, and with no easy way to obtain any of them. Her father, who despite his criminal record had somehow gotten back on his feet much more quickly, gave her $20,000 for living expenses, and even offered to let her stay with him, and Sydney gladly accepted the first. 

\----

After a run, Sydney arrived at her hotel lobby and found that she had a visitor, sitting on a couch and looking pensive.

Vaughn.

If there had been one benefit to all of her recent running around, it was that it had rendered her far too frustrated and physically spent to think about her lost love. Now, as he approached her, the sensations she’d felt when she saw that wedding ring returned with the force of a gunshot to the chest, first as pain, and then as fury. 

Vaughn stood up at closed the distance between them. “I came by to see how you were.”

For a moment, Sydney had no idea how to respond. Her anger kept words away from her mouth, until it didn’t. “Are you kidding me?” she finally said.

“No, I just wanted to make sure you're—”

“You didn't come here to see how I am,” Sydney interrupted. “You came to see how you are, because you know what you did. You want to make sure you're okay.”

“I buried you. Consider that for one second,” Vaughn snapped, with a feigned neutrality that felt condescending and offensive.

“Don't use rational thought as a defense with me,” Sydney retorted, her mind suddenly very clear in her anger. “Not after all you and I have seen. Vaughn, you and I live and breathe madness every day on the job.” Doubles, lost memories, prophets… “There is no rational thought.”

She was aware that people were staring. She didn’t care. She was legally dead anyway, so what did she have to worry about? “What it comes down to is faith. What I was hoping you would say is, ‘I gave up on us. I lost faith.’ But what you came here for was closure, and there is not a chance you are getting that from me. I'm not going to say I understand. I'm not going to sympathize with you and tell you how hard it must be for you. But you want to know how I am? I am horrible. Vaughn, I am ripped apart, and the person I most trusted to help me through it abandoned me. And the thing is, if it had been me, I would have waited. I would have found the truth. I wouldn't have given up on you. And now I realize what an absolute waste that would have been.”

For a moment, neither said anything. Sydney could feel her heart beating faster that it had at any point during her run, but still, somehow, she felt better. 

“I wanted to tell you…I’m thinking of returning to the Agency.”

So much for better. “What? The Agency where?”

“Somewhere here, hopefully. It might be the Task Force. It may be back with Devlin.”

“Is this because I returned? No—actually, don’t tell me. What could possibly possess you to do it? Do you really hate me that much?”

“I don’t. It’s…it’s something I’d actually been considering before you came back.”

“Well then, reconsider it. Work with the F.B.I. or a bank or whatever, but not the C.I.A. I’m serious, Vaughn: it’s the only thing I have left, and I can’t do it if I have to look at you every day.” 

Vaughn did not attempt to follow her to the elevator. Sydney’s managed to keep her cool just long enough for her to reach her hotel room, after which she broke down on her bed, feeling utterly alone. 

\----

Sydney took a sip of the lemonade she had just been handed. “Thank you again, for letting me stay here. I’m sorry for the imposition.”

“You have nothing to apologize for. Like I said, you can stay here as long as you need to.” said Dixon, his own drink in hand. “Trust me: I have years of experience as a fake banker. I know how hard things can get.”

Sydney cracked a smile. It felt uncommonly soothing. Or maybe it was just the lemonade. 

After a week being miserable at her hotel, Sydney finally decided to accept Dixon’s offer of moving in with him. There wasn’t much actual moving in that needed to be done, given her general lack of worldly possessions, but Dixon had insisted, going as far as volunteering Robin and Steven’s services. Together, the four decorated Sydney’s room in record time, and, after Sydney tipped the two kids one hundred dollars each, Dixon’s children headed off to the beach, leaving the two adults alone in the kitchen of a house that she wasn’t sure she wanted to feel like home. 

“Truth be told, I think I should be the one thanking you,” Dixon continued. “Your room used to be Diane’s office. I don’t think it would have ever become something else, if you hadn’t needed it.”

The brief sense of contentedness vanished. “Is it still painful?”

“Not as much, after the first year. I try to keep myself busy. The children and the job help. When they don’t…well…I try to keep myself busy.”

“I’m sorry.” And there was plenty to apologize for. For not being there. For lying to him. For not being able to stop Sloane when she could. For underestimating her mother.

“Don’t be. It is getting easier. And it’ll get easier for you too.” Not that she hadn’t known loss herself. Still, she was curious. Maybe losing Vaughn, and Francie, and Will, and her life, would be like losing Danny. Maybe it wouldn’t. It could always be worse. 

Silence ensued, and for a moment the two old comrades elected not to fill it. Dixon’s phone rang.

“This is Dixon. You may speak.” He didn’t leave the kitchen, and Sydney resisted the temptation to betray that trust by attempting to discern what the other party was saying. Instead, she limited herself to observing Dixon, who, veteran spy that he was, knew to give her nothing aside from generic assents. After thirty seconds, he hung up. 

“What was that all about? Are we needed at Ops?” Sydney asked. 

“We’re needed at Ops.” 

\----

To Sydney’s dismay, their briefing was attended by Robert Lindsey. Those not in attendance included her father, Vaughn, and the still-on-medical-leave Thomas Grace and Monica Flores. It reminded her, involuntarily, of SD-6, when she, Dixon, and Marshall—the first now sat next to her, the second was also absent—were often the only people being briefed. Lindsey wasn’t as bad as Sloane had proven to be, of course—at least not yet—but that didn’t stop her from wanting to strangle him. As for Kendall…well, he was much easier to appreciate, nowadays. 

The situation, as Kendall explained it, involved two C.I.A. agents, Klein and Rotter, who were stationed in Belarus and had gone missing two days ago. Eight hours earlier, members of the Covenant had taken credit for the kidnapping, and had announced that they were willing to exchange their prisoners, in exchange for one of the United States’ own. 

“Sark? Julian Sark? Worked-with-Sloane-and-my-mother Julian Sark?” Sydney exclaimed. This briefing was not going to get better, it seemed. 

“None other,” Kendall said, with his usual sardonic tone. 

“You can’t be serious.” 

“Actually, Agent Bristow, we very much are,” Lindsey chimed in. “The DOJ has authorized it. To the best of our knowledge, Sark has been bled dry of every piece of intel he knows. The burden of criminal justice notwithstanding, he now has a value only as a commodity in trade.” 

“Without knowing why they want Sark, how can we consider this?” 

“Because, Agent Bristow, they have two of the C.I.A.’s agents,” answered Lindsey. “If this is the safest way to bring them back, it’s the one we’ll have to take.” 

“Safe? Setting a terrorist free is safe?” Lindsey may well be right, but Sark was, if nothing else, the only senior member of Sloane’s coterie currently under custody. Setting him free felt like undoing the last few months of work. 

Of course, those were only the last few months of work to her. 

“I'm authorizing the trade,” Kendall said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “You and Agent Dixon will lead an alpha team to escort Sark to the exchange point in New Mexico and secure our agents. You leave in eight hours.” 

\----

“Can you believe it dad? Sark.” That her father, sitting across from her at the café table, did not seem to share her indignation frustrated her to no end. 

“Sark’s the least of the problems with this scenario. Agreeing to a trade only incentivizes further enemy action, and Kendall knows it. Unfortunately, you don’t have a lot of room to maneuver here.” Although it was almost certainly unintentional, that “you” stung—it should have been “we.” Unfortunately, although Sydney had succeeded in securing her father’s freedom, she had not secured his employment. For the first time in decades, he had no formal ties to the C.I.A. 

He was wearing it well, all things considered. While he still seemed uncomfortably thin, he seemed as close to relaxed as he ever got. It was mildly upsetting, but better than many of the alternatives, Sydney believed. 

“So what should I do?” 

“You do nothing. Your position at the C.I.A. is still precarious; you cannot afford to make more enemies.”

“I was afraid you’d say that.” 

“Also, Kendall should be considering this: why Sark?” 

“Huh. Good question.” He was a capable agent, true, but those could be obtained far more cheaply. What did he have that nobody else did? “Maybe they want him as a go-between between them and Sloane?” 

“That seems most plausible, at least until we learn more. In that case, we’ll need to prepare for the worst. Sloane and your mother have been relatively silent, but if the Covenant is interested in what they’re doing, then that may not be the case for much longer.”

Sydney rolled her eyes. “Oh, fantastic.” 

\----

It annoyed Sydney quite a lot that Sark, despite spending roughly twice as much time as her father had in prison, had managed to weather the time much more gracefully. It also annoyed her that he actually looked…happy to see her. “Sydney. I was beginning to believe you were—”

“Dead? That’s what a lot of people believed.” 

Sydney felt gratified to see Sark’s face fall, a bit. “Well, I’m glad that’s not the case.”

Yeah, she wasn’t going to touch that one. “I wanted a word with you before you got traded.” 

“I can imagine. Although I can’t imagine why you’d wait so long to have this conversation.” 

Well, he could keep wondering. “I read the transcripts of your confessions. Including the part where you and a woman named Allison Doren killed my friend Francie. How and when did it happen?”

“Is that really what you want to know?” he asked, cocking his head to the side for effect. He was always insufferable when he had leverage. “Well, if it helps, she wasn’t in place that long—the switch was made shortly after Sloane and I facilitated your assault on SD-6 headquarters. As I understand it, Allison approached her at the restaurant and disposed of her. She didn’t suffer.” 

“No, that doesn’t make me feel any better.” He actually seemed disappointed, the pig.

“May I ask you something, Sydney? What happened with her—with Allison? From what I’ve put together, you were the last person to see her alive.” He wasn’t just asking about a comrade. He actually cared about her. 

Good. 

Sydney thought of her father, and tried to summon his usual coldness. “She tried to kill me. I killed her first.”

“I…see,” was Sark’s only response. He no longer seemed amused. Her turn. “That day, after I fought Allison, there was a fire at my apartment. Officially, it was ruled an accident, but I know it was a cover to make the C.I.A. believe I was dead after I’d been kidnapped. I think you know why, but you’ve failed to mention that in your confession.” “I didn’t, because I knew nothing about it. What makes you think I would?” “Because for some reason both Sloane and Irina Derevko considered you worth trusting. They placed Allison. They were behind everything that night. It stands to reason they were behind my kidnapping.” Sark smirked. “Sydney, if Sloane or your mother had intended to abduct you, I wasn't privy to it. And trust me, I’d have no reason to keep the secret now.” “What if I said I still don't believe you?” “I'd say it'd make no difference. From what I’ve been told, in 24 hours, I'll be free, and you'll remain in the dark.” 

She wished that were a lie. 

\----

**New Mexico**

After her second year of globe-trotting for SD-6, Sydney had traveled enough to be able to compile a list of her favorite and least favorite environments climates, which had remained fairly unchanged since. Deserts in the daytime, while not at the very bottom, were close: too much heat, too much dryness. Fortunately, if things went as planned, their exposure to the elements would be minimal. 

The convoy transporting Sark to the exchange felt at once excessive and woefully underequipped. Taking the lead were Sydney and Dixon, who were transporting Sark himself in a prisoner transport van. Behind them was a larger van containing not only the four-person alpha team for backup, but also a medic and equipment to provide first aid to the agents should it prove necessary. More than enough, in most circumstances, except that Sark, like anyone involved with her mother and Sloane, had long since proven that the words “should be” did not apply to him.

“You alright?” said Dixon, interrupting the stewing Sydney had not been entirely conscious she’d been doing. They had just left the last signs of urbanity and now entered the desert. 

“Not really,” Sydney admitted. “It’s just…it’s still too much, you know? And every time I try and get a foothold, something else happens. I feel like I’m about to explode. At least after Danny and SD-6 I had focus.”

“I get that. You know, there are support groups for people like you—people who’ve lost time. It may be able to help in ways we can’t.”

“I know. Barnett told me. Not interested.” Sessions with the C.I.A. therapist were bad enough, but having to share her business with a group of strangers was not at all appealing.

“It’s not the same, but after the incident with Will, I started going to a widowers support group.”

“Did it help?” Given his admissions while they were moving in, it seemed not.

“It did. It does. Not immediately, but it helped me find less destructive ways to channel my grief, and to meet people who understood it and I could talk to about it. It helped me find acceptance, while not allowing Diane’s death to define me.”

“Okay. I’ll consider it.” Sydney said, trying not to sound dismissive. Going to a group entirely about dead spouses seemed like the opposite of not allowing their deaths to define them.

“If you don’t, then that’s fine. But I just want you to know that there are options.”

“Thank you.”

A prisoner exchange was, all things considered, among the most stable of tradecraft scenarios. As her father would say, both sides benefitted from its successful execution, which meant that there was little chance The Covenant would attempt to deviate from the plan.

The plan itself was also simple, and familiar: the two parties would keep a distance of two hundred meters, and the various prisoners, unarmed and cuffed, would cross the distance to the opposite side at the same time. Any attempt to open fire would be met with equal force, resulting in the deaths of the prisoners and possibly others. 

At the agreed-upon spot, Sydney exited the van. The Covenant, she was pleased to see, had actually only sent three agents to supervise the exchange; Dixon’s team could, in theory, open fire once the trade was completed, with a reasonable chance of succeeding in taking the enemy out with no loss of life for their side. She pushed aside the thought: on this occasion, at least, by the book was best. 

“Well, I guess this is it,” said Sark, as he was retrieved from the van. “Sydney, as always, I hope we meet again.”

“Bite me.”

“Charming as always. I’ll be sure to write.” The words were pure Sark, but for the first time, Sydney noticed that his expression didn’t match their glibness. He was worried. 

Once Dixon’s team was in place, they waited for the Covenant’s signal. Sydney, responded with a signal of her own, indicating that the trade could begin. 

Sydney watched as the three prisoners made their way to their corresponding sides. She was mildly relieved to see that the two C.I.A. agents seemed unharmed. Just as the prisoners’ paths crossed, she saw the gleam of moving vehicles on the horizon, behind the Covenant.

“Base, we have incoming vehicles,” Dixon relayed. “We need an ID immediately.”

“They’re not ours, Quarterback. I’ll try to get a visual,” responded Kendall. 

“Understood,” Dixon replied. Turning to Sydney, he asked: “Do you think we’re being double-crossed?” 

“Either way, it’s bad.” Covenant reinforcements would be bad enough, but friendlies wouldn’t be much better. If the other side decided to open fire, their nice stable scenario would likely turn very bloody, very quickly.

And then things got worse still, as Sydney heard the droning of an approaching helicopter—still far, but approaching fast. Her side hadn’t been the only one to notice, either: one of the Covenant operatives, presumably the leader, was giving orders to his people. Two of them, in turn, took defensive positions and turned their weapons to the approaching ground vehicles. If they were worried about the new variable in their scheme, they weren’t showing it. Meanwhile, Sark and the two prisoners stood in the middle, no longer moving, taking it all in. 

As the ground vehicles arrived at the scene, Sydney, through her binoculars, saw decals identifying them as part of the New Mexico Police Department. The helicopter, presumably, was theirs as well. Wonderful.

The ground vehicles, armored personnel carriers Sydney usually associated with SWAT teams, stopped some fifty feet from the Covenant’s cars, allowing a half-dozen heavily armed police officers to exit. Their leader, carrying a bullhorn addressed the other parties. “Covenant operatives, this is the NMPD. You are under arrest. Put down your weapons and surrender, or we will open fire.”

They should have complied. Tactically, the situation could not be worse for the Covenant; they were surrounded, outgunned, in territory that provided no protection at all. It was a perfect ambush, which made the enemy agents’ complete calm, even as the newcomers arrived and prepared to fire, extremely unnerving.

Amidst the standoff, Sark and the C.I.A. agents had resumed their passage, and now each less than a fifty meters from their destinations. It was as Sark reached the Covenant that the SWAT Team on the ground decided that they had had enough of being ignored and opened fire. 

As low as Sydney’s opinion of her would-be allies was, she at least expected them to be able to shoot down their targets. She did not expect their first volley to end with the Covenant agents and their vehicles still standing, and in fact apparently completely unharmed.

“What the hell?” Sydney heard Dixon exclaim.

“Should we open fire?” Sydney asked.

“They haven’t. Let’s see if we can’t figure out what’s going on, first.”

Sydney watched as the helicopter approached the Covenant forces; obviously its occupants had made a different calculation. While the chopper itself wasn’t armed, one of its occupants was, and Sydney watched through her binoculars as the female sharpshooter took aim, fired, and completely failed to hit its target, or do more than kick up the earth surrounding them. 

The firing stopped. If the Covenant hadn’t had everyone’s attention before, it certainly did now. It was probably why nobody—the CIA, the police officers on the helicopter, or the ones on the ground—noticed the new threat on the scene until it had fired a missile onto the chopper’s tail. 

Sydney ignored her instinctive desire to keep an eye on the falling chopper— there was nothing she could do for it—and instead searched for the new attacker. She quickly found it, or them: a pair of small drones quickly approaching from behind the C.I.A. alpha squad, and descending for what Sydney suspected would be a strafing run. “Everyone, back in the transport!” She cried. She wasn’t sure it would provide much protection, but some was better than none. Her fellow agents, blessedly, wasted no time in following her orders. Even so, it was a close thing; as she entered, the last one in, she felt one of the bullets graze her leg. 

For a moment, the sound of the helicopter crash landing drowned out everything else. 

“Ops, what are those things?” Dixon cried out.

“We’re not sure, Quarterback,” said Marshall. They’re not appearing on radar, and they’re moving too fast for the satellites to get a clear image.”

Which meant that they were moving too fast to shoot down, and that there was nothing to do but hunker down until they stopped shooting.

One minute turned into two. While the van’s light armor turned out to be no match for the attackers’ ordnance, killing its occupants did not seem to be the Covenant’s aim, and only two other agents in addition to herself were hit. And then, as suddenly as it had begun, the assault stopped. 

Once they were sure the firing had stopped. The various agents exited the now-useless transport. The scene that awaited them was as bad as could be expected. The wreckage of the helicopter was spewing black smoke, and Sydney could see no sign of its pilot or passengers. The SWAT team on the ground appeared to have had the same idea as the C.I.A., but even so, she could still see multiple bodies on the ground, dead or gravely injured. And of course, the Covenant was long gone.

At least they'd rescued the C.I.A. agents. 

\----

**Los Angeles**

When she arrived at the Joint Task Force Ops Center, Sydney stormed directly into Lindsey’s office, ignoring the slight limp on her right leg. After being told he’d gone to the men’s room, she found him there, where he was, fortunately for them both, washing his hands. 

“Son of a bitch! We should have gotten those hostages back.” The shock of her entrance caused Lindsey to spill water all over his pants, which was far less than he deserved.

“Who the hell do you think you are?” he said, with undisguised contempt. 

“I’m the person who’s going to hold you accountable. What you did was moronic and borderline criminal”

“Agent Bristow, as I told Director Kendall, I only did what was best to get the prisoners back without having to give up assets. I believe you agreed that Sark is too dangerous to let go. And given the way your previous mission went, it seemed prudent to keep my plans hidden.” 

“Those men died because of you. I’m going to make you pay.”

It was an idle threat, she knew, but Lindsey appeared to take it seriously. “Little girl, I have the authority of the Department of Justice behind me. I can have you thrown in the same cell your father vacated—hell, it's still warm.”

“Do it. Give me an object lesson in the abuse of power. Show me how it's done.”

“If you're finished, this is the men's room.”

“Then who let you in?”

\----

“I wish you would have consulted me before confronting Lindsey: I would have advised that you not do it.”

“I know,” Sydney replied.

“Then you know that as cathartic as your encounter might have been, it’s only likely to make things worse for you. Lindsey is not someone you can just humiliate; he must be dealt with decisively, or not at all.”

“I know that too. But dad, I just couldn’t. I can’t deal with everything else _and_ him. It’s just too much.”

“Nevertheless, you’ll have to. Finding the answers you seek will be difficult enough without having the government as your enemy.”

He was right about that too. He usually was, when tactics were involved.

“Do you think he’s right, about there being a mole inside headquarters?”

“I’d say it’s more than plausible. And if that’s the case, Lindsey’s stunt may have done you a favor: it suggests that any mole may be coming specifically from his office.”

“Because no one else knew about it. Huh. You don’t think Lindsey himself—”

“—is the mole? No. Being the person who suggested it wouldn’t protect him for long, in case of an organized mole-hunt—especially after this stunt.”

Unfortunately, she believed him. 

\---

Sydney’s first thought when she saw Vaughn sitting in Dixon’s—her—front steps was that his current job was clearly not giving him enough to do. Another part of her, which she feared would never die, was exceedingly happy to see him. She ignored that part. “What are you doing here?”

“I just wanted to say something, and then I’ll leave you alone.”

“Fine, go ahead.” She did not motion him to come in.

“The other day you said I gave up because I didn't have faith. That somehow you didn't mean enough to me.” “That’s not—” “No, let me finish. After you died, I used to talk to you like you were still around. Literally out loud, whole conversations about nothing. The weather. Should I get a new car? Should I have another drink? Then, one day, you started answering. I mean, I could hear you in my head like you were right next to me, Sydney. And although I knew I was a guy who stayed up nights drinking, talking to his dead girlfriend, still I couldn't stop.” 

“So before I go, there are three things you need to know. First is that I was so in love with you, it nearly killed me. And second that I don't regret moving on with my life.”

“How fantastic for you. And the third?”

“I’ve decided…I’m not going to rejoin the Agency. You’re right—it wouldn’t be good, for either of us.”

“Well, thank you.” She hoped it sounded it sincere. It was, partly. “What are you going to do? Teach, still?” 

“I’m not sure yet. Maybe I’ll do what you suggested, and work at a bank—try and get your credit restored.”

For the first time since the nightmare began, being with Vaughn felt like it used to, if only for a moment. “That’d be nice,” she said with a wan smile. 

“Don’t thank me just yet though. You should know, part of the reason why I wanted to rejoin the C.I.A. is to work with Lauren—my wife."

“Oh,” Sydney said, her smile dropping. “She’s C.I.A.?”

“She’s with Justice, actually. An A.U.S.A., working in the Joint Task Force under Robert Lindsey. Do you know him?”

_Well, shit.  
_


	2. Chapter 2

New Mexico

Border checkpoints and airports did not usually bother Sark. While they usually required him to place himself at quite a tactical disadvantage, it rarely mattered that he had no practical weapons, and was impossibly outnumbered; all he needed was a solid false passport and the confidence to make everyone believe that he was indeed Bob Brown, international trader, instead of a man wanted in most of the developed world. Now, however…

He was with San’ko, the last remaining member of the Covenant’s rescue party, after the others had each gone their own way. A more foolish person would have concluded that this was a good thing; a single opponent offered better odds than four. Sark was not foolish, and neither was the Covenant; if San’ko alone was entrusted with Sark, that’s because San’ko alone could handle Sark. What’s more, after their display at the exchange hours earlier that day, he didn’t care to see them when they were working against him. 

Not helping his nerves was that while Sark knew nothing about the Covenant, he did know about San’ko—specifically, that he had a brother, until Sark violently changed that circumstance. While part of him was fairly confident that the Covenant wouldn’t have gone through the trouble of freeing him just to kill him—they certainly wouldn’t take him to Mexico to do it—one could never be sure. And so Sark remained silent, gathering information and waiting.

Unfortunately, San’ko wasn’t very cooperative. All Sark had learned about the man in the hours with him was that he had a predilection for Britney Spears and other young female pop stars, and no shame at all about enthusiastically singing to their music. Aside from that, however, the travel to the border was uneventful, as was the actual crossing—no undeclared contraband of any sort. 

Once inside Chihuahua, Mexico, it was another six hours before they arrived at their apparent destination, a two story restaurant that looked somewhat out of place in what was otherwise a rather nondescript segment of Aldana Street. Once there, San’ko and Sark were led to an internal courtyard, unpeopled but for one man, eating some sort of ceviche. San’ko motioned Sark to sit down before leaving the room. 

The man sitting before Sark set aside his utensils and turned his attention toward his visitor. “Welcome, Mr. Sark. My name is Julian Nisard. I oversaw the planning and execution of the operation that resulted in your freedom.”

Well, at least he was more vocal than San’ko. “Not that I’m not grateful, but I’m not exactly certain why you’ve gone through all the trouble. If this is about my association with the late Alexander Khasinau, I assure you, there is very little information I can provide that will be useful.” 

Nisard’s mouth stretched into a grin with very little mirth behind it. “Don’t play coy, Mr. Sark. The identity of your true employer is no secret. However, I suspect there is truth in what you are saying, and there is little you could tell us about Irina Derevko’s current plans, even if you wanted to. This is about your father.”

“What about my father?” Sark said, trying to hide his surprise. The man hadn’t crossed his mind in years, let alone in connection to a group like the Covenant. 

“He possessed some information we’re keen to know. We would like your assistance obtaining it.”

“Ask him yourself. I’m done with my father.”

“That won’t be possible. Adrian Lazarey is dead. Murdered.”

A panoply of reactions coursed through Sark’s head, none obtaining the upper hand, and none making its way to his actual face. 

“Our condolences,” Nisard said. 

“Save them. You wouldn’t happen to know who killed him, do you?”

“We’re working on that. You’re welcome to assist, after you first help us with our other matter.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then you won’t receive the two million dollars we’re prepared to pay for your cooperation.”

 _That_ got his attention. What could his father possibly have known? “Is that contingent on your success?”

“Not at all. Merely your good faith efforts.”

“I see.”

\----

In the end, he accepted $10,000—enough to get by until he figured out his next step, not enough for him to feel as if he owed them something. He’d told them what he knew—nothing—they’d accepted that, end of conversation. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do in the immediate future, but that was a problem for tomorrow. Tonight, he would drink, and dwell. 

He was on his third beer when a woman, not at all unattractive, sat next to him. It was not, Sark knew, a coincidence: the hotel bar was nearly empty. “You look like you’ve lost a friend,” she said, after she’d ordered her drink, a whiskey on the rocks. 

“I have.” Although Allison would probably dispute that characterization. “And also, the closest thing to a mother I’ve ever known, and a father whose distaste for me was entirely reciprocated.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It happens.”

“Would you care to talk about it? Any of them?”

Whether it was the alcohol or the fact that he’d actually missed human interaction while in captivity, Sark spoke. Of growing up under the wing of a father who considered him valuable but not worthy of care. Of his petty thievery, which lasted just until he’d picked up the wrong mark. Of Irina, who spoke of power and freedom, how they were truly one and the same, and taught him how he could obtain both. Of how she made him feel, for the first time, that he had control over his destiny—and finally, her betrayal, which he didn’t understand, even after two years thinking about little else. Of Allison, his partner in every sense of the word. He didn’t open himself up entirely—names were omitted to protect the guilty, of course—but he said enough that, when he was finally done, he felt unburdened. 

“Sorry about that,” he said, as his stream of consciousness slowed down to a trickle and eventually stopped. “I didn’t mean to overwhelm you with my problems.”

“Oh, no worries. Irina, in particular, sounds like one hell of a woman.”

Sark felt his body tighten. “You’re with The Covenant.”

“Guilty,” the woman said, her smile holding no trace of shame or disappointment. “Lucien thought you might want some company.” She offered him her hand. “Olivia.” 

“Julian Sark—although clearly you know that already,” he replied, declining to shake the woman’s hand. “Listen, Olivia, as attractive as you are, I’m really not in the mood tonight.” Which was a lie; despite the woman being double his age or nearly so, he quite emphatically had been in the mood, two revelations earlier.

“Oh, don’t worry; this isn’t that sort of seduction, not if you don't want it to be. I just wanted to talk, about your future.” 

“Go ahead. Although I’m not sure what you could say. I’m not interested.”

“Is it because of Irina? Are you planning on booking a flight to Zimbabwe, or whatever they’re calling it now, to see if she’ll take you back?”

“I’m considering my options. But forgive me if I don’t wish to be indentured to an organization I don’t care for. Two years in prison was enough.”

“Is that what you think we’ll do?”

“Organizations like yours do tend to have a rather zealous approach to potential security risks.”

Olivia actually smiled at this. “That’s true. But consider your options. You could go freelance, be your own boss. Do you think you can do that? You’ve been out of the game for two years. What makes you think your connections will hold up, or that there’s a place for you?”

“I’m not afraid of competition.”

“Good. However, here's a second thing you should consider. Say you _do_ return to Irina and Sloane. You’ve been in prison for two years, and as you said, people like us do tend to be zealous about security risks. If nothing else, the Covenant can provide certainty.”

“You underestimate my relationship with Irina.”

“And you underestimate yourself.”

 _Under_ estimated? He was being baited, he knew. He decided to bite. “What do you mean?” 

“You’ve made it quite clear how you feel about Irina; she’s the closest thing you have to a mother. As a mother myself, let me tell you: this fixation of yours? It isn’t what she’d want. She’d want you to fly, to make your own way.”

“With you?”

“Okay, now we’re going on in circles." She placed her right hand on his. "Tell you what. You take an hour to sober up and think about it, and if you think you’re interested in joining us, you can look me up in room 447. I’ll be there until tomorrow morning. After that, though, I’ll be gone, and you’ll never have to worry about us again.”

Sark watched as Olivia walked away—was it just him, or was that swaying of her posterior for his benefit? 

He considered ordering another beer, but then thought better and ordered some water. Olivia was right: this required thinking. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continuity note: 
> 
> Both San'ko and Nisard are canon characters, albeit extremely forgettable ones. San'ko appeared in the original 3.02 and later in 4.08 ("A Man of His Word"), while Nisard is Elena Derevko's mustachioed lieutenant from the tail end of season 4. 
> 
> This series as a whole draws a significant amount of inspiration from the Metal Gear Solid videogame series, which should tell you quite a bit about what happened in the New Mexico hostage exchange. Does this mean that future stories will feature walking battle tanks? Probably not. Love blooming on the battlefield, though...


End file.
